


Morstan and Hooper: Detectives (on Accident)

by Origamidragons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9472820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Origamidragons/pseuds/Origamidragons
Summary: "Hello, I'm Mary Morstan, and I'm looking for a flatmate. Lestrade told me you needed a place to stay?"





	

Mary (because that's the name she's adopted now, and she needs to train herself to react to it, even though it still feels wrong against her skin) isn't sure what sets Molly Hooper apart from everyone else at first. Isn't sure what drives her to walk up to the brunette and say, "Hello, I'm Mary Morstan, and I'm looking for a flatmate. Lestrade told me you needed a place to stay?" 

Maybe it's her casual attitude towards death, the clinically detached look that Mary knows sets in her own eyes when she sees a corpse, the very particular one that can only mean experience. 

Maybe it's the way her brow pushes together in confusion when she makes the request, a silent 'why me?' and she doesn't know that the act in itself answers her unspoken question. 

Maybe it's the smile that invades her face after the moment of befuddlement has passed, small and shy, as she says, "Yes, actually, that sounds lovely. I'm Molly. You're a friend of Greg's too, then?" 

Mary doesn't trip over the lies at all as she explains that yes, she's friends with his sister, and very purposely does not explain that one time she shot a man who had Deputy Inspector Lestrade's skull in his sights as a favor to the aforementioned sister. 

She certainly doesn't mention that the sister, in return, gave her the name, birthday, and documentation of a stillborn niece who would have been named Mary Morstan. 

She thinks they're going to be great friends. 

~~~ 

Mary carries a gun with her everywhere she goes. Molly brings pieces of dead bodies home. Mary checks and catalogues the exits every time she enters a room. Molly's dark humor is legendary. Mary wears a flash drive with the letters AGRA scrawled on it on a chain under her shirt at all times. Molly scribbles notes- 'hypoxia,' 'stab wound to the upper abdomen', 'posthemorrhagic anemia'- on the backs of her hands. 

All told, Molly is an excellent flatmate. Sure, there's papers scattered all over the place over every available surface and usually organs floating in embalming fluid on the counter, but Mary isn't squeamish. Besides, Molly is an excellent chef, and Mary feels that that balances things out. 

~~~

It barely takes a week before Mary sees one of Molly's case files open on the table and can't help but take a look, the expert in death and destruction living inside her winning out. It's the case that's been in all the newspapers, the serial suicides, but instead of the ostentatious headlines, Molly's autopsy report presents the facts with clean, clinical honesty that Mary appreciates. 

It might be hypocritical of her, to appreciate honesty. Still, as she runs a finger down the toxicology report, listing out the cocktail of toxins found in the victim's system, her lips turn down in a thoughtful frown. It's so familiar... it can't be him, though. It simply can't be. 

Because Jim Moriarty is dead. 

Nonetheless, when Molly is called into the morgue in the middle of the night to slice up a woman all in pink, Mary asks if she might come along. 

~~~ 

Molly is an expert at the clinical side of death. She could look at a body and tell cause, date, time. Mary, though. Mary could tell you motive. 

She'd never been to medical school, but she knew what a hit looked like (professional or amateur), what manslaughter looked like, murders of passion and murders of rage. And scariest of all, she can recognize the random madness of serial killings. 

These reek of the latter, she comments under her breath as she stares at the body. All ages and genders, no relations between them, all sharing specific details. Serial killings. 

Molly glances up at her from where she's inspecting the pale, rain-damp skin. "What?" 

Mary opens her mouth, realizes something, and closes it again, thoughtful. "It hasn't rained in London today," she says instead. "It hasn't rained for the past few days." 

Molly looks slightly confused. "So?" 

"So why is she wet?"

Molly turns from lost to nonplussed. "Oh-um-well, she could have come from out of town." 

"Why come all the way to London to kill herself?"

Molly is at a loss for words. Mary grins, and she suddenly realizes she's been _so bored_ hunting for ordinary jobs and sitting around the flat. She hates being sedentary, letting all of her training atrophy. "Want to come catch a serial killer with me?" 

~~~

Mary scowls over the crime scene photos that Molly had provided after a substantial amount of hemming and hawing. There's nothing immediately obvious there, so she has to look for what's not. 

It's annoying, because she knows she can do this. She has all the expertise. It's just that usually, she's on the other end of it. She lets herself slip back into her killer mindset, looking over the pictures with a critical eye, this time as if she were the murderer. If she'd killed this woman, what would she do to cover it up? What evidence would she be sure to get rid of? 

It hits her all of a sudden. 

She's from out of town. The cops are still trying to find her identity, but she's definitely from out of London. But she doesn't have any luggage, nothing left with the body. Even someone only in town for a day would have to have a purse with her or something similar. 

More notably, no phone. There wasn't one found, but she had to have had one, what traveling middle-aged woman didn't? So the killer must have taken it. 

~~~ 

Molly reports that there was salt crusted around the corners of the woman's eyes. She'd been crying. It's not something uncommon in the bodies of murder and suicide victims, but it seems significant nonetheless. She files the information away in case it becomes important. 

She closes her eyes. 

_I've just forced a woman to kill herself. How is irrelevant for the moment. She had luggage and a phone. For whatever reason, I took it. Maybe so it would take longer to identify her, maybe because it could be used to identify me. No, unlikely. Patterns point to my being a serial killer, and her a random victim. In any case, I don't just smash the phone, because data can be salvaged. I take the bag, too. Maybe the phone is in the bag and I don't want to stay around and search for it. What do I do next?_

_I keep the phone after digging it out of the bag. So what do I do with the luggage?_  
  
Her eyes snap back open. 

_Dump it._

~~~ 

Molly comes dumpster diving with her. Mary isn't entirely sure why. She supposes Molly isn't entirely squeamish- she can't be, she's a pathologist for god's sake. More helpfully, she knows precisely where the body was found, and has a good enough mental map of London that she can direct them around with reasonable accuracy. 

Mary hasn't been in London for three years. She remembers it, of course, because it's not the sort of place one forgets, but in a hazy, blurred around the edges way she'd never want to have to rely on during a fight or a chase. Molly, however, is London born and raised, and Mary finds that, even though she likes being able to survive on her own, to drop everything and run if she needs, she doesn't mind relying on Molly. 

They find the suitcase, and it has a luggage tag attached, which is fabulous. Mary doesn't doubt that the cops would have identified the body eventually, but this will just speed everything up so well. 

The dead woman's name is Jennifer Wilson. 

Molly is already dialing Lestrade with the information as Mary roots through the suitcase and idly takes note of the fact that she's currently tampering with evidence. She knows what she's doing, though, which is more than she can say for half of the police (she doesn't hate them, really she doesn't, and Lestrade and Donovan are good friends, but she's had quite a few bad experiences). 

The phone isn't there. 

The killer must have it. 

There is a number on the luggage tag, and Mary scribbles it onto her hand before zipping the bag back up and expertly wiping down any surfaces on which she might have left fingerprints. If Molly notices her doing this, notices her clear expertise (which of course she does, because if there’s one thing Mary knows Molly Hooper is not, it’s stupid), she doesn’t comment.

 

~~~

They end up eating dinner at a little Italian place whose owner owes Mary a few favors of an illegal sort, sharing pasta while they wait for a murderer, and Mary realizes with a thrill of anticipation that she feels alive again.

Then a cap slows across the street, and they chase it halfway across London and it almost doesn’t matter that it’s just a wild goose chase because there’s adrenaline thrumming through her veins and oh, she has missed this. Not the fear and the paranoia and the isolation, living in a world apart from everyone else, not being constantly on the run, but the _excitement._  
  
~~~ 

He has a gun on her. Molly. Sweet, innocent Molly, who went to answer the door so Mary wouldn't have to. It's not a real gun, she knows it's not, because Mary can recognize a real gun from a mile away. 

But Molly can't. Molly doesn't know that, and her hands are shaking wildly as she brings the pill up to her mouth, eyes closed with frightened tears glittering on her lashes. The cabby (of course it was the cabby, it's always best to be faceless, someone who'll be quickly forgotten and Mary knows this, how did she forget) is grinning wickedly, sadistically. He has the other pill in his hand. 

He's not afraid. 

The game is rigged. 

Mary Morstan does not own a gun, officially speaking. She doesn't even have a license. 

Molly squeezes her eyes shut and her lips move in what must be a plea or a prayer, and a tear races down her cheek. 

Mary pulls the trigger. 

~~~

Molly is pulling the bright orange blanket tight around her shoulders, and her face is void of color save for two bright red spots high on her cheeks. 

"I think I'm in shock," she states matter-of-flatly when Mary sits down next to her, her voice only shaking a little bit. "Because I-I almost died, I was going to die, and oh god it was so close." 

Mary pulls her into a tight, comforting hug, one arm pulled tight around her shoulders, as her erratic breathing slowly evens out. Molly starts to say something, moving to wipe at her tears with the back of her hand, but then stops, and frowns, eyes fixed on Mary's hand. 

Powder burns, Mary remembers too late.

Molly doesn't say anything, though. She just stares for a moment, then looks up, meets Mary's eyes, and whispers 'thank you' under her breath. 

"Do you know anything about someone called 'The Woman?'" Molly asks after a beat. "The cabbie said that, as he was dying. Just 'The Woman.'" 

"No," Mary says. "I'm rather curious to find out, though. Want to come?"

Molly huffs out a surprised laugh, thin pink lips pressing together in what might be a grimace or a smile. "After I stop shaking?" 

"It's a deal."


End file.
